Shamal, through a combination of caution, luck, and God’s grace, managed to avoid both accident and indictment, but within the police force he became a pariah, a marked man nobody wanted to get close to. The constant tension ate at him; by the time of Amal’s swearing-in ceremony, his hair had gone gray and his face was lined and careworn.
Four months later while driving into work, Shamal had happened across a burglary in progress. Two men lugging a television out of a house whose owner was on vacation had been confronted on the street by an elderly neighbor. Shamal drove past just as one of the burglars backhanded the old woman. He screeched his car to a halt and jumped out, pistol in hand. The burglars drew their own guns. Shamal killed them both, but was shot several times in return and died on the way to the hospital.
What appeared at first to be an unplanned tragedy became something more sinister when the burglars were identified as natives of Tikrit, Saddam’s hometown. Then when Amal went to reinterview the neighbor who’d interrupted the burglary, she couldn’t find her. Other neighbors said she’d moved away, though no one knew quite where: Some said Jordan, some said Kuwait. Some said Mauritania.
Amal petitioned the Bureau to open an official investigation into her father’s death and was turned down. Her superiors acknowledged that she had reason to be suspicious, but still felt that the whole thing was most likely a coincidence. After all, as Amal herself had told them, her father had varied his route to work every day precisely in order to avoid being lured into a trap. Amal wanted to agree with this logic—a coincidence was easier to live with—but she also knew that the likelihood of a setup depended in part on just how patient the killers had been willing to be.
Amal’s mother never doubted that Saddam was responsible. At the funeral she rose to give a speech—seemingly spontaneous, but in fact carefully crafted with the help of Aunt Nida—in which she asked those in attendance whether they really wanted to go on living in a climate of fear. In the following weeks she gave more speeches, in front of larger and larger crowds. Though she did not denounce Saddam Hussein by name, her listeners got the message loud and clear, and eventually so did Saddam, who sent some of his men to disrupt one of the speeches. The result was another photo, almost as famous as The Moment: Amal’s mother on stage, pointing towards a Baathist heckler in the process of being mobbed, the heckler’s expression shifting from arrogance to terror as he realized just how badly he’d misjudged the mood of the crowd.
It was a nice bit of theater, enough to get Amal’s mother, after a few more twists and turns, elected to the mayor’s office. But whatever good works she’d been able to accomplish there, and whatever good works Amal had accomplished as a fed, two things remained unchanged: Saddam Hussein was still a free man; and Shamal was still dead.
The outer lobby door opened and Amal’s mother came in, accompanied by Amal’s brother Ali, who was her chief of staff, and Amal’s brother Haidar, her head of security. As they crossed the room Amal’s mother spotted Amal, nodded, smiled, and gestured for her to follow, all without breaking stride or interrupting her ongoing conversation.
A moment later they were in the inner sanctum. Ali and Haidar both excused themselves, Ali saying “Ten minutes,” and winking at Amal as he stepped back out of the office.
“So,” Amal’s mother said. “I’ve been hearing good things about you lately. I’m told you saved another agent’s life.”
“Yes, I did,” Amal said.
“And shot a terrorist.”
“Yes.”
“But there’s been no press release,” her mother noted. “No public recognition of your heroism.”
“There were some problems with the mission.”
Her mother translated: “Somebody else screwed up and you saved his ass . . . All the more reason you should be lauded. Nobody needs to be embarrassed by it—they can leave the mistakes out of the official statement.”
“I am being recognized,” Amal said. “In-house.”
“ ‘In-house.’ ” Her mother rolled her eyes. “I know what that means.”
“Mother, please. It’s not that I don’t want a public commendation, but—”
“Well that’s good then, because you’re getting one.”
“But this isn’t what I came here to talk to you about. I—”
“Just let me put a note in my PDA. I have a meeting with the Deputy Director of Homeland Security on Wednesday, so—”
“I got a call from Anwar.”
Her mother paused, a hand on her purse. “Sadat, I hope,” she said.
Amal told her the story. By the time she finished her mother was standing with her arms crossed, shaking her head.
“Why would you agree to meet with him?”
“He practically begged me to.”
“So?”
“Well, I didn’t want him showing up at the office.”
“If he shows up at the office, you have security turn him away. My God, Amal . . .” Her eyes narrowed. “Who chose the restaurant?”
“I did, why? . . . What, you think it’s a blackmail scheme? Hidden cameras? Anwar wearing a wire?”
“It’s not a joke, Amal,” her mother said. “I’ve got the vote on the marriage bill coming up soon. And now, out of the blue, this man you had a sigheh with a lifetime ago decides to get in touch to ask a favor?”
“You’re wrong,” Amal said. “The timing must be a coincidence.”
“There are no coincidences in politics. Trust me on this.”
“You didn’t see him. The way he talked about Salim . . .”
“Oh, I’m sure it was heartfelt. He may not even know he’s being used, you know. It could be that some friend of his in Riyadh, someone he confides in, suggested that he contact you.”
Some friend of his in Riyadh . . .
“Bin Laden,” Amal said.
“What?”
“Osama bin Laden . . . Would Anwar’s father know him?”
“I don’t know,” her mother said. “It’s possible. You think Senator Bin Laden might be behind this?”
“If he is,” said Amal, “then you’re not the one they’re trying to get to.”
“I would love for you to explain that statement to me.”
“It’s probably better if I don’t.” Then she said: “So what about Salim?”
“I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do for him. If the Post publishes a Page Six exposé about my daughter’s temporary marriage, that’s embarrassing, but not really damaging. But if they run a story about how I used my influence to get my daughter’s son out of America, while other sons—beloved sons—are still fighting and dying there . . .”
“The Post.” Amal made a face. “You can stay a step ahead of Tariq Aziz, surely. You used to run rings around him.”
“You know, when you try to flatter me I fear the worst . . . Tariq Aziz is one thing, Osama bin Laden is another. What have you gotten yourself into, Amal?”
“I’m honestly not sure yet,” Amal said. “But will you do this for me, please? Whatever favor you were going to call in to get me a commendation, use it instead on Salim’s behalf.”
Her mother shook her head again. “You don’t even know the boy, Amal.”
“I know. But I don’t need to know him, to show him compassion. Anwar was right about that much.”
They called it the Republic of Saddam: a patchwork of estates and commercial properties that collectively formed an outlaw nation, a separate country within the UAS. Most of it was in Iraq, but there were scattered outposts throughout Arabia—villas in Alexandria and Tunis, a hotel in Abu Dhabi, a gambling den in Casablanca, rat cellars everywhere.